


throw me in the landfill

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, Songfic, cleaning out my drafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8983645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: “Landfill”, by Daughter. Please take the time to look up this song, and the rest of the lyrics. While I did not include them here, they are worth a read (or two). Very heartbreaking, with or without the obvious ‘Johnlock’ similarities.





	

_“Well this is torturous_  
Electricity between both of us  
And this is dangerous  
'Cause I want you so much 

_But I hate your guts.”_

After all that time, after two whole years, Sherlock Holmes had the audacity to just walk back into John Watson’s life, as if he hadn’t lied to him for two years. As if he hadn’t left him to think his best friend was dead.

He gave himself the necessary moment to confirm that the man was, in fact, standing alive in front of him and that his battered psyche had not actually taken the final bow and produced a wonderful, agonizing hallucination of his dead—presumed dead, now—flatmate. He did this by slowly drawing up a hand to Sherlock’s face, and unabashedly running his fingertips over the hard, marble edge of his posh cheekbone.

To his credit, Sherlock did drop that completely inappropriate grin when John lifted his hand; the ordeal wasn’t entirely a big joke to him, and he had at least a minor semblance of the damage his absence had caused John.

John allowed himself a moment to confirm Sherlock’s existence, and to revel in the proximity, the contact of him—something he could never get enough of, even before Sherlock’s ‘fall’. 

And then his hand lifted away. John let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold, clenched his fist, and returned it to his side.

Sherlock’s sudden appearance only seemed to make all John’s thoughts slow to an indistinguishable pace, and then sprint forward in a flash of fury and relief.

He had a million, million things he wanted to say. Things he dreamed to whisper against Sherlock’s lips; things he ached to shout right in Sherlock’s stupid, insolent face; things that he knew could not be said without an upheaval of the wall he’d built around and inside his heart, and would only break free in a flood of tears and desperation.

All John could manage without a serious embarrassment on his part was a soft, broken, “Two…years.”

“John—” Sherlock tried.

“No.” John took a deep breath. “No. You do not get to come in here, after two years of letting me think you dead, and explain it all away. You were dead, Sherlock, and I grieved you. I’m still grieving you, even with you bloody standing right in front of me,” he rushed, at a loss for breath once again.

John stopped, locked into Sherlock’s glistening eyes, so full of emotion, clearly betraying the ‘sociopath’ in him.

Sherlock broke first, averting his gaze for the more favorable sight of his shoes, on the steps of 221 Baker Street for the first time in too long.

John took that moment to turn back and disappear through the front door. Sherlock, surprised, followed quickly, letting the door slam not-so-softly behind him.

With the look of pure, unadulterated venom on John’s face, Sherlock was glad he picked a time when their landlady was out for the shopping.

Sherlock thought to maybe start his apology over, having been cut off the first time.

“John, I am—” He did not get any farther, however, because John’s hands abruptly found the collar of his impressive Belstaff, just recently returned to him.

“Don’t,” John whispers, their faces only an inch apart. They stared at each other, and it felt like it dragged on for days. “Just—Just don’t. Not now, Sherlock. I’m only a few words away from punching your stupid face, so just…don’t.”

Sherlock huffed something that could have been a laugh, but John honestly did not care.

“Just shut up for a minute, yeah?” It was the most casual-sounding either of them had been in the entire encounter. John dropped his head, for just a moment, never releasing his grip on Sherlock.

Sherlock had just picked up three new gray hairs that hadn’t been present before he left and was about to continue looking for more when John was instantly on him, his mouth hot and angry over Sherlock’s.

John tensed, expecting Sherlock to push him off and away at any time—but was instead given Sherlock’s almost-instant response of kissing him back, just as earnestly and just as furiously.

They remained there, flush against each other, battling with every touch. Rough fingers in Sherlock’s hair, a bruising mouth on John’s neck, an impatient hand underneath his jumper, John’s teeth cutting into Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Eventually, when the need for air outweighed the waging war, they separated. Both of them significantly redder than before, with swollen lips and battle scars that seemed insignificant but meant everything—John roughly tore himself away.

“We are not okay,” he spat, a final blow to end the fight. Then he promptly turned and stomped up the stairs, making sure to slam the door to the flat as loud as he possibly could, to let Sherlock know he was not welcome.

“Not yet,” Sherlock whispered to himself, running a finger over his throbbing lower lip. 

_“I want you so much but I hate your guts.”_

**Author's Note:**

> “Landfill”, by Daughter. Please take the time to look up this song, and the rest of the lyrics. While I did not include them here, they are worth a read (or two). Very heartbreaking, with or without the obvious ‘Johnlock’ similarities.


End file.
